Moments
by Defying.Expectations
Summary: Collection of 100 word drabbles. Various characters, pairings, genres, and situations.
1. Red

**A/N: **I have a tendency to be very long-winded while writing, so I decided to challenge myself by writing some drabbles. Each will be no more and no less than 100 words, and will not be connected to each other whatsoever . . . aside from all being Sweeney-related, of course.

I hope you enjoy. Reviews are always appreciated.

Also, I will be taking requests, so if you have any particular pairing/character/moment/etc that you would like to see me try my hand at, do let me know in a review or PM.

* * *

From his shop window, he sees a customer pinching her buttocks.

Unexplainable, inescapable red suffuses his vision. Before he knows it he's outside, fingers locked around her shoulder.

"Why were you encouraging that man?"

She raises her eyebrows. "Encouraging? _Hardly_."

The red thickens.

He lunges forward; she holds him back.

"C'mon, dear. He's an ordinary bloke what's after a woman. Not that I'll let him near. Y'know, I managed fine without you for fifteen years. Surely you've more trust in me?"

She smiles. "Don't tell me you're jealous, love."

"No." Scowling, he leaves; her taunting smirk burns into his back.


	2. Hands of Insanity

**A/N: **Forgot to mention this before the first drabble . . . for the word count of my drabbles, I go by what MS Word says, not what FF Net says.

* * *

"_Green finch and linnet bird, green finch and linnet bird, green finch and linnet bird . . ."_

She clutches at the words of her songs night and day, day and night, but even they're slipping from her.

"_Green finch and linnet bird . ._ ."

Hands of insanity tear at her from all directions, scratching, shredding her mind.

"_Green finch . . ."_

She clings to the fact that she is not like the others – that she is not mad.

Not mad. Not mad. Not.

Anthony will come soon. Until then she waits.

"_Green – green – green . . ."_


	3. Break

**A/N:** For NellieLovet. This isn't very romantic, and I apologize for that. But I tried, eh? ;]

* * *

You aren't as pretty as she, but there's something about you. Your inflexibility, your temper. Your insubordination.

It's a challenge. I want to take it.

To break it.

Break you.

"You've no right," you snap as I stand in your doorway to take away the baby, a defiant tilt to your head, a gleam in your eyes screaming you'll stop me any way you can.

But you _can't_, of course.

Your gaze burns me as I walk away with the child. I know you want to break me as well, albeit in a different manner.

You like a challenge too.


	4. Intuition

**A/N:** Dedicated to my dear cousin Mary Jane, who could not remember Nellie's name after we watched ST together, and ended up calling her Mrs. Doolittle. This has been begging to be written ever since. ;]

* * *

"Look what I found wandering the streets," she coos. "Poor little bugger. Half-starved, he is."

He spares Mrs. Lovett a brief glance. A scrawny cat sits contentedly in her arms.

He does not understand his landlady. She routinely – willingly, in fact – cuts up human bodies day after day, and yet melts into butter when she sees an abused boy.

Or a neglected puss, apparently.

"He's had a rough time," she continues. "Been wandering the streets for years. Never had a proper home."

Sweeney looks at her. "How do you know? Cats can't speak English."

"Intuition, love."

He rolls his eyes.


	5. Pain

"So let's keep living it," he croons, each syllable laden with – no, she isn't imagining – love. He feels more than lust – he _loves_ her –

And they're dancing and spinning and oh God if his strong arms weren't around her she would've melted into the floor –

– _love –_

" – just keep living it – " she echoes, hardly conscious of her mouth moving, so overwhelmed that he finally feels as she does –

– but –

– but something isn't –

Her eyes widen.

_No._

" – really _living it_!"

– _my love –_

And then his arms are throwing her and she is falling and screaming and pain pain _pain_ –


	6. Close Your Eyes

**A/N:** Dedicated to my dance teacher, who unwittingly inspired this entire drabble.

* * *

He starts to leave her bed. She grasps his forearm. "Why not stay the night for once, love?"

"Eleanor," he warns, withdrawing his arm.

There's too much light in her dark gaze, too much love; he looks away.

"Just . . . lie down. Close your eyes."

But he can't. To close your eyes is to trust someone not to hurt you.

He knows people always hurt each other.

Her face presses into his shoulder, lips shifting against his skin as she murmurs: "Even if your eyes're closed, I won't ever hurt you."

He knows this too. It scares him.


	7. Masked

**A/N: **For unamuerte.

* * *

Beautiful music. Colorful masks. Joyous laughter.

She weaves between dancers, wondering where he is.

Rising music.

She has a drink. She has another. And another. Or is this the second?

Masks. Colors. Grins.

He arrives. She no longer wants to see him.

Deafening music.

Fear. Shame.

Raucous laughter.

Pain.

Masked faces watching.

Different hands, body, sweat. Different. Wrong.

Blank black eyes everywhere.

She hopes without hope her beloved will save her. Silmuntaneously she's thankful he cannot see her unfaithful, see how unworthy she is of him.

Color. Too much color in a colorless world.

Then it's over. But it's not.


	8. Barber Chair

**Warning: **Far more tongue-in-cheek than my usual writings. Also very AU.

* * *

He throws her into his barber's chair and wastes no time in joining her.

Lips tussle. Clothes rip. Breath hitches. Faces flush red. Unintelligible murmurs escape. Hearts thump in a fury. Greedy hands roam.

A foot – he doesn't know whose – flails out and hits the lever that springs the trapdoor.

If there had been enough time to panic, the pair would have. But it happens too fast for either barber or baker to react at all.

They tumble into the bakehouse headfirst and smack the floor. Their spines break upon impact. They are both dead in less than an instant.

* * *

**A/N: **C'mon, guys. There's a reason Sweeney calls Nellie _practical_. Neither of them would not have sex over a trapdoor.

[mind you -- I'm not trying to offend anyone who -has- written this scenario. I've read many awesome fan-fics that use this situation in a more serious light. Just wanted to bring up how ridiculous it really is. ;)]


	9. Don't I Know You

**A/N:** For Ravencaller.

* * *

enter the room inside black room little light beadle not here where is he

man approaches her must tell the man about the beadle and the Devil's wife and her evil deeds it is a tall man angry man but he must listen to her he must listen he must beware of her his face is

_smiling caring loving loves her_

hard and angry and white skin clenched muscles dark eyes

_dark eyes beautiful eyes heaven's light reflects best in darkness_

"don't I know you, mister?"

and his hand reaches out to her and

_strokes her cheek_

cuts her throat.


	10. Flower Market

He strolls through the flower market, arm-in-arm with his wife as she pushes the pram.

She disentangles their limbs and steps in front of him to peer into several wicker baskets. She takes a flower between her fingers to show their baby. He smiles at her back.

She turns towards him, the flower still held in her hand.

He recoils.

Alarm pools in her eyes. "What's wrong?"

_daisies are her favorite flowers she puts them on the windowsill table nightstand counter piano dresser she smiles at him with her warm eyes and auburn curls_

"No," says Tobias Ragg, "not daisies."


	11. Bleed

**A/N: **So last week, dear Elphaba (my computer) was taken over by a nasty virus that disabled everything on my computer -- including my antivirus software. She had to visit the computer doctor and have all her programs removed. Now she's home again . . . empty of everything, but virus-free, which is the important thing.

And thank God all my word documents were saved. =D Very nearly had a meltdown when I thought they might be lost forever.

Anyway, I'm posting this drabble to celebrate. Hope you enjoy (for lack of a better word ;]). Reviews are love.

* * *

It's only as she's scrubbing blood off her hands – courtesy of her tenant's latest victim – that she realizes:

She hasn't bled in over a month.

Her heart leaps to her throat and throbs giddily as, grinning, she brings a hand to her stomach.

_He won't want a child by you._

The grin drops. Now her heart pounds with anxiety.

In time, she tells herself, he'll warm to the idea of a child – of their child. She knows he will.

Her jubilation swells anew. She smiles.

When she strips off her undergarments that night, her blood runs all over her hands.


	12. Intuition II

**A/N:** Because I wanted to write about something happy, dammit.

Part two of drabble #4, Intuition, though can probably be understood just as easily by itself.

* * *

"I've decided to call him James."

The cat approaches the barber chair and coils around Sweeney's legs, failing to notice the look of disdain the barber shoots him.

"Always liked the name James. Noble, strong name. I mean, there's a reason so many kings've been named James."

The animal jumps up and lands in Sweeney's lap. He scowls.

"And it's a very fitting name for him – he's survived some tough times, y'know."

Sweeney lifts the cat by the scruff of its neck. "Mrs. Lovett. Your precious 'James' is a girl."

She stares at him.

He smirks.

So much for intuition.


	13. Chess

**A/N: **Happy Christmas. =)

I've also posted a Toddvett/Sweenett Christmas story today that I'm quite excited about (what can I say? I love Christmas). So, if you're inclined, go give it a read. ;)

* * *

Sitting across a chessboard in the parlor after hours is the only time the boy and the barber will ever consent to be in the same room as each other.

The baker watches them and grins. She is the only one to do so.

Sixty-four squares, thirty-two black and thirty-two white. Sixteen pieces each. One king, one queen, two knights, two bishops, two rooks, eight pawns.

The only thing that makes the game complex is the two players.

The barber plays to escape. The boy plays to prove he can be victorious over this demon.

Neither of them can win.


	14. Nearly Here

**A/N:** For Nellie Lovett Gracey.

* * *

"_Die! Die! God in heaven, DIE!"_

Never until this moment have I questioned the fate of my soul. Not until the hereafter is nearly _here_ does doubt arrive.

You try to wrench your skirts away from my grasp but I cling tight and desperate as though you can save me from the darkness crawling over my eyes. As though you are my salvation.

If that's the case we are both bound for hell.

I struggle for air and choke blood. It tastes of salt and memories. Stings my throat.

This time you succeed in tearing my fingers from the fabric.


	15. Pretend

**A/N:** It seems no matter how hard I try, nearly every other drabble I write is Toddvett to some degree. I know, I'm hopeless. ;]

Anyway, I'm debating whether or not to start a separate drabble series of just Toddvett drabbles. But I want to know what you guys think of the idea?

For now, though . . .

* * *

She pretends to not be miserable and he pretends to not be human, but in the end they can't fool each other.

In the daylight, it's easy to pretend. The light shines through the window panes, illuminates the room, sparkles on glass. Creates a glare in everyone's eyes. Washes out reality.

At night, there's no blaze of light to hide behind. At night, she can't pretend her pillows aren't wet with tears. At night, he can't pretend hurting these others will bring his wife back.

At night, they have each other.

In another life, perhaps that would have been enough.


	16. Boundless

**A/N: **For Roselize.

Also, since the majority of you thought it a good idea, I've created a separate drabble series just for Sweenett. =D It's called Of Rolling Pins And Rubies. At the moment, all of the drabbles posted there are ones that are cross-posted here. But in the future, that will be where all my Sweenett drabbles go. Now I don't have to feel guilty about favoring those two all the time in my writings and neglecting the other characters. ;]

* * *

They say love is unconditional. Endless. Boundless.

Once, I would have said so too.

We walk through the sewers, stepping over filth. Your silver friend smiles from where it sits, waiting, in your hand.

But there comes a point when the boundaries are pushed too far.

I glance at you. You, of course, don't see.

That point has been reached. The boundaries have reluctantly shown themselves.

You are my boundaries. I will always choose you over everything. Over anything. No matter how much it pains me.

A tear slips past my eyelids. You don't see this either.

_I'm sorry, Toby._


	17. They'll Come Back

**A/N:** Yes, I am still alive. Just been busy with the ST novel. Which is now completed, by the way (!), and is in the process of being edited by two fabulous betas.

Expect many one-shots and drabbles in the coming months while I figure out what to do with my life now. xD

* * *

"Don't cry, Nellie."

"I'm _not _crying."

"I won't live here any longer, but I'll see you again someday. People're going to come and go in your life. You must have faith that if they really love you, they'll come back."

"_Will_ you come back?"

"Yes. I love you, don't I?"

Nellie crawled into her older brother's lap. Her mother chastised that eleven-year-old girls didn't sit on laps, but her mother wasn't here – and for now, Robert was.

"Promise?"

Robert pulled her against his chest. He smelled of coal and rainwater. He smelled like her father – like a man.

"I promise."


	18. Normal Day

It is a normal day. Better, actually. He is on his way home for the first time in many months. So the entire day has taken a joyous, almost surreal quality to it. Each face on the street is beautiful. Every tiny ray of sunlight filtering through the clouds glitters gold.

"Do you live in London, sir?"

"Oh, no, sir," he tells the barber with cheer as he takes his seat. "Lovely city, I must say, but I'm just visiting – "

He is unaware that he has signed his own death sentence until red rubies are ripped from his throat.


	19. Hole

**A/N:** For fanfic50, prompt four, hole.

* * *

When she was young, Johanna would spend her time in the mansion's holes: pinched into corners, crouched under beds, hunched beneath desks.

"Why do you always huddle into small areas?" the judge would ask, frowning down at whatever tiny space she had managed to bunch her body into that day, as she placidly read or sewed. "There is plenty of room in our home."

Johanna would shrug and smile and say, "No reason, Father."

The judge's frown would deepen, but he would leave her be, and Johanna would tuck back into herself.

If she couldn't escape, then she could hide.


	20. Miracle Elixer

**A/N: **For fanfic50, prompt six, queue.

* * *

"Why the hell are you just sitting there, boy? Keep on drinking."

Toby throws a despairing glance at the queue of unfilled Miracle Elixir bottles before taking another swig from the gin flagon.

"I don't see why it has to be piss, of all things," says Toby. "Why not water? Or gin?"

"Whoever heard of a colorless elixir?" Pirelli demands as he pours ink into a glass already brimming with yellow. The ink swirls before blending, darkening the mixture. "Shut up and get back to work."

Sighing, Toby finishes the gin, grabs a Miracle Elixir bottle, and unbuttons his pants.


	21. The Strongest Man In The World

**A/N:** For fanfic50, prompt nine, innocence.

* * *

"Again!"

His father laughed between gasping for breath, hunched over with hands on his knees. "I can't, Ben."

"Again!"

His father rumpled the three-year-old's hair. "It takes a lot of effort to lift you into the air over and over again. Someday, when you're old like me, you'll understand. I'm just too tired."

Benjamin frowned. "But you're the strongest man in the world."

Another laugh burst from his father's mouth, but it was from a mouth parted in a frown. Benjamin didn't understand this: Weren't people who laughed supposed to smile? Weren't people who laughed happy?

"No, Benjamin. I'm not."


	22. Pointless

**A/N: **My, it has been a long time since I updated these drabbles . . .

* * *

For fanfic50, prompt eighteen, point.

* * *

You don't think I know. But I do.

You don't think I watch you watching him.

You don't think I realize you'd prostrate yourself on the floor if he spared you a smile.

You don't think I smell your pointless devotion.

You don't think I have nightmares anymore. I still do – but when I run to your bedroom, half-conscious, I turn right around when I hear noises I shouldn't.

You don't think I'm smart. I don't either. But I'm smarter than you think.

You don't think I know something you don't: your dreams'll never become even as tangible as air.


	23. Nothing There Sings

For fanfic50, prompt thirty-six, tragedy.

* * *

Anthony grasps her hands. "Are you sure about this, Johanna?"

"Yes."

She must prove to herself that she can re-enter the home of the man who was her jailer . . . the home of the man that she watched

_the blade plunge into, sinews splitting, blood spraying in gleeful refrain –_

She represses her shudder and opens the door, racing upstairs to her bedroom, to her lark's cage, grinning. At last happiness is hers, whatever prisons she lived in or murders she witnessed before.

At last her lark can sing.

Her feet halt. Her smile withers.

Her lark is dead.


	24. Happy Birthday

**A/N:** Because nobody ever writes about the beadle.

* * *

For fanfic50, prompt twenty-one, scar.

* * *

"Happy birthday, Annie."

The necklace's chain is silver, the pendant a droplet-shaped pearl. It's the loveliest thing she's ever owned. . . . Her eyes moisten: does he think her old enough to be treated as a woman now?

"It's beautiful, Father. I'll wear it everyday – to show how much I love it – how much I love you – I'll wear it like a trophy . . ."

Beadle Bamford smiles.

Ten months later, nothing's beautiful, and her father can't smile in his coffin – but she still wears the necklace everyday – not a trophy, but a teardrop scarred into her skin.


	25. She Doesn't Know

Fanfic50 #44: spy.

* * *

Lucy knows that woman's a witch and the Devil's Wife, but not who the man is.

Lucy doesn't know why seeing them pass arm-in-arm through the streets, the witch glowering at Lucy and the man glowering at nothing, boils her with anger.

Lucy doesn't know why seeing the man fiercely embrace the witch through the big window above the witch's house makes bile rise up her throat.

Lucy doesn't know why seeing the man simultaneously makes her skin ache and her mouth smile.

Lucy doesn't know why she hates seeing the witch and the man together.

But Lucy keeps watching.


	26. Dinnertime Conversation

Fanfic50 #20: dinner.

* * *

"Who was my real father?"

"A fool."

"Yes, you've said – but _who _was he?"

"Why? Am I not worthy enough to be called your father, Johanna?"

"Of course you are – "

"Then there's no need to converse further."

" – I only want to know why he abandoned me . . ."

Silence.

"It doesn't matter why. Many men possess a faceless evil that the few decent men cannot explain. For now, we must simply understand this evil exists, and pray to never succumb to it as they do – as your father did. . . . Finish your dinner."

"Yes, Father."


	27. To Those Who Can Wait

Fanfic 50 #26: Pretend.

* * *

"'S'not all bad, love. You've got a beautiful baby – "

"She deserves better than what I can give her."

" – enough money 'til you find a job – "

"I've no skills."

" – and he'll come back soon, just wait – "

"I can't wait for what'll never happen!"

Nellie loses patience. "'Course it'll happen! He promised he'd come back – since when's Benjamin ever broken his word?"

Lucy's lips part in a grin like the cracking of a plate. "You and my husband are unfortunately alike. I can't wait for the impossible as you do. I can't pretend fairy tales are reality."


	28. Cry

For fanfic50, prompt #50, writer's choice: tears.

* * *

Johanna never cries.

Not when she's hungry. Not when she wakes up. Not when she's agitated, lonely, or just petulant. Not ever.

The neighbors are relieved. The other mothers are envious. Lucy and Benjamin are worried. It's normal for babies to cry. Is something wrong with their perfect child?

The only time Johanna cries is when they pass the Thames. Sailors hustling about the docks, river flowing by at its murkily steady pace. Great ships looming overhead with large sails ready to blow nowhere.

And then Johanna bawls.

Lucy and Benjamin should take this as a sign. But they don't.


	29. Proud Fingers

**A/N:** Inspired by the 2001 Concert Version of Sweeney Todd, but should be understandable even if you have not seen it.

Fanfic50 #25: proud.

* * *

He runs his bloodied fingers through her locks.

How did he not recognize her until now? Even with a different hair color, it's still so clearly his Lucy . . .

He had loved her yellow hair. He would let it run through his proud fingers like golden water, like tangible sunrays.

He clutches the dirty maroon strands. He remembers that the hair of Egyptian mummies changed to red too, after death. She was dying before he murdered her.

The knowledge brings no comfort.

There's no pride in his fingers when he unbuttons his shirt collar to wait for death.

* * *

**P.S.** Reviews are love.


	30. Bloodless Destruction

Fanfic50 #27: Late.

* * *

There's no blood upon her.

Normally she hates blood. Normally she washes her stained undergarments with only her fingertips.

Normally she fears blood and what its appearance represents: destruction by another human.

Today she fears its absence. Because it means creation rather than destruction.

She no longer wants to create, not when her fellow artist isn't her husband. Not when her internal wounds still gush blood.

After washing her undergarments with only her fingertips – not that she needs to, not that they'll be used again, but maintaining cleanliness is a habit engraved into her rent soul – Lucy visits the apothecary.

* * *

**A/N:** Reviews are love.

P.S. Happy Christmas!


	31. The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

Fanfic50 #23: solution.

* * *

Johanna never planned to become a murderer. But she shot Fogg without hesitation.

She also never planned to see how vile men are, or how terrible solitude is when surrounded by people, by shrieking victims of insanity that can't hear anyone but themselves.

She never planned to know how easy it is to inflict pain.

Anthony loves her, but he's afraid. When she polishes Todd's razors – her razors now – he says to put them away. He says there will be no further murders: with both Turpin and Todd dead, they're safe.

They're happy.

She keeps polishing. She must be ready.

* * *

**A/N:** Reviews are to my writing soul what oxygen is to the average human.


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